A Plague On Both Their Houses
by Indigo2831
Summary: Post Season 10's "The Hunter Games." Probably AU. This time Sam and Dean understood that the Winchesters were utterly and truly cursed.
1. Chapter 1

Happy Hellatus, everyone! I've been sitting on this one for awhile but I'm so excited to share this multi-part story with you. The story is finished so updates will happen every few days. I'm not going to say anything else. Happy Reading! Let me know what you think.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

After surviving for decades as a hunter, the only thing that surprised Dean Winchester was waking up in the morning and the threads of silver in his little brother's hair. So when the gas station cashier's eyes flashed beetle black, Dean rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh and dropped his armful of junk food on the counter.

"Kid, I've been on the road for thirteen hours after clearin' out the worst vamps's next this side of Purgatory. If you value your black eyes, you'll take a raincheck and run along back to hell."

The demon wore a teenager with streaks of purple and green in dark, curly hair, it was the chubby, brown cheeks that spoke of youth that kept Dean from gutting the thing with the demon-killing knife. As he revved up to say something snarky, he slashed her in the face with holy water. Never missing a beat, Sam recited the exorcism around a yawn.

The demon threw her head back with a scream. Dean dragged an arm over Sam's chest, pushing them both back to watch the blackness funnel out of the cashier's throat. Maybe they could rid themselves of the demon and talk the girl down and still reach Memphis by dawn.

The only thing that erupted from her mouth was a string of maniacal laughter. Her eyes were still alarmingly black and her lips glided into a treacherous smirk. "I hate to break it to you, boys, but I'm the diversion."

Only now did Dean's blood run cold as fear belatedly set in.

Dean caught a glimpse of his own brother's fearful face before Sam was snatched away and tossed into a rack of snacks. Dean felt the telekinetic shove a beat later, and skidded backward, feet scuffing the ground. He collided into a counter, the nozzle of the slushie machine jabbed him bruisingly in his lower back as primary colored bags of potato chips and pretzels careened into the air. The hunter launched himself towards the new threats—three tanks-sized demons, two with black eyes and one with yellow, all with smashable faces. Dean clobbered it with an elbow to the face, whipped out his pistol and shot it in the heart. It died with a strobing starburst of light and a truncated scream.

Bullets forged from melted down angel blades were the best invention since nuke-able burritos and Internet porn.

In his periphery, he could see that Sam was already on his feet. All of those damned salads and workout sessions in the gym paid off as Sam intercepted the demon who attempted to take him out at the knees, twisted in mid-air and pile-drove it onto the floor dappled with broken chips and powdered pretzels. A second later, it was dead. The demon-killing knife sticking obscenely from its flank.

The third demon, a rock of a man with a pristinely braided ponytail, clobbered Dean with thunderous punch to the back of the head that dropped him to his knees, dazed.

The possessed cashier leaped from behind the counter and landed easily on two feet in front of Dean. Dean reigned in his self-control with effort. The Mark fought back a bit, arm aching before falling quiet. Obedient for now.

"I'm bored," Dean droned, trying to blink away the oily globs that streaked his vision. "Call off your puppies before I put the last one down."

Sam edged away from her to stand side-by-side with his brother. A solid wall of Winchester was pretty friggin' intimidating.

"Trust me, Dean, I'm anything but adorable," Her smirk was a lopsided and devilish, "you'll see."

With a flick of two fingers, Sam careened backwards into the frozen refrigerator door with a jolting thwack that left spiderwebbed glass behind his head. His face that was frozen in a rictus of terror from the flight melted slack; his eyes rattled in his head before rolling back. He slumped to the floor, out cold, a smearing trail of blood painting his path.

The ponytailed demon kicked an unconscious Sam over and stooped to hold a knife at his exposed throat. Dean growled, his arm vibrating with energy, the fury of The Mark beckoning to unleashed. He swallowed down the pain from denying it bloodshed, and trained his gun on the black-eyed bastard threatening Sam. "Worst. Idea. Ever," he seethed. "Back off my brother."

The clerk walked behind him and demonically shuffled him aside. She helped herself to the biggest cup of blue raspberry. Her nametag read "Gemma." Dean could make fun of bizarre names for kids later. "Look, darlin'. I'm sure you're the nastiest thing this side of the devil's gate, but this path you're on-screwin' us over- it don't end well for you. Never has, never will."

The rage that glinted in her brown eyes didn't match the innocence of the girl's young face. She slurped her slushie and lifted a shaped eyebrow. "You think I'm nasty?" She asked. Her face creased with tickled malice. Stepping forward, she had to push herself up on her tiptoes so she could stroke Dean's cheek. "Baby, I've got moves you've never seen."

The creepy-gentle caress change to a more appropriate stinging pinch as her nails dug in. There was a bright crackling light, a puff of sulfur, and Dean knew no more.

-SPN-

His first sensations were of cold and stone.

It was a hunter's instinct that kept Dean still, even as his body tensed from the pounding in his head and a bruising ache in his back. He listened for the voices and tried to gauge his surroundings without sight.

There was nothing but the echoing, sporadic drip of water and smoky heat of a fire. Dean felt its heat painting the left side of his body. He risked opening an eye, and screwed it shut with the room blurred and spun beneath him. His head felt stuffed with cotton and sand, light and heavy at the same time.

But then he remembered: Sam unconscious with a knife at his throat.

It was all the compulsion he needed to fight through the headache and the grogginess of yet another demonic whammy, and survey his surroundings. He was in a prison cell, of course, the bars were a thick forged steel he knew he couldn't break down just by looking at them. The other walls were made of old stones and crumbling mortar. Low ceilings and the dank, moldering scent of earth were all clues that he was underground. At least there was a small fire to provide meager warmth. The Winchesters had squatted in worst places.

Predictably, he'd been stripped off his coat and weapons. Even the paperclip Sam had taken to sewing in the pockets of their jeans had been removed, along with his belt.

He struggled to his feet. To the right of him, there was another cell. The only access was a small, misshaped hole striped with the same fat bars about chest-high. He rushed over, heart racing in time with his pounding head.

Stooping, he gripped the bars, eyes sweeping the cell to find it empty.

He inched the length of the longer wall, examining the bars and lock.

Dean's stomach dropped. "Shit."

It was an old-fashion lock, one he could have picked blindfolded with a stick, except it had been soldered shut, silver metal frothed through the keyhole like metallic foam.

How do you escape a cage with no door?

 _You don't_ , his mind answered forebodingly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the reviews and alerts. Here we go! Let me know what you think!**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 _Where was Sam?_ Dean kicked the stone, paced the length of the cage, tugged at his shorn hair, and wondered just how long they'd let him stew.

A lifetime later, there was a jingle of a key in a lock in the shadows just behind the fireplace. The yellow-eyed goon that had threatened Sam appeared with Gemma at his side. They dragged the limp burden of his brother between them. Sam's head sagged between his shoulders, long legs stretched out behind him. They dumped him in the next cell. The other demon left without a word.

Gemma crouched to shackle one of Sam's wrists to a chain that bolted in the far wall.

Blood crusted the neck of Sam's flannel. "If you hurt him, I swear to…"

Gemma's head owlishly whirled around to glare at him, the movement was inhumanly swift and predatory. "To what, God? You are many things, Dean Winchester, but _holy_ is not one of them, not anymore and never again."

She dropped Sam's shackled wrist, and it landed on the stony, dirty floor with a wince-inducing thunk. Standing, she kicked Sam squarely in the ribs. Sam started from the blow, breathe hitching as he flopped on his back, brow knitted. Gemma theatrically listened to the silence, eyes whirling about the room. "See, nothing."

Dean threw himself bodily against the bars, the Mark burning to seethe, "You should be more scared of me, bitch."

She stalked out of the cage, kicking the door shut behind her. She draped herself against Dean's bars. "Give me something to be scared of, and we'll talk."

He was insulted. "I killed your goons."

Gemma waved him off. "First rule of villaining: Find henchmen that are big enough to do the dirty work and stupid enough to be expendable."

"And what's the second rule?"

She lifted an eyebrow and licked her lips. "You'll find out soon enough. I believe in showing, not telling," she said huskily.

Dean grimaced harshly. "If you're going for that whole vixen-villian thing, you really should have picked an older meatsuit."

Gemma ran her fingers through the brown curls tinged with purple and fluttered her heavily eyelinered eyes. "But she's so trendy. The soccer moms and divorcees give up so easily. Do you know how awful it is wearing a dead meatsuit?" She frowned distastefully.

The Winchesters had long trained themselves not to think of the soul being commandeered by a demon, but now it was all Dean could see. He let the rage ebb, gripping the bars. "Let her go."

Gemma crossed her arms over her chest and chuckled haughtily. "No."

"Let Sammy go. Seems like you only have eyes for me."

She made a nasty sound in the back of her throat. "Your reputation proceeds you Dean, and I hate to say it, but I'm not impressed." Sam stirred faintly beside him; Dean pretended not to notice and dropped a shoulder in an attempt to block him from view. "Next time I see you, have your game face on."

She headed for the door, then backtracked, picking up a painter's bucket on the path back to Sam's cell. "I almost forgot." She heaved the contents through the bars, hitting his half-conscious little brother square in the face with what appeared to be cold water.

Dean flung curses at her as she disappeared into the shadows. He rushed over to the other side of his cage, cracking his knuckles against the stupid bars. A stupefied Sam was on his knees, coughing so hard he nearly vomited. He was drenched, water dripping off of him into the sizeable puddle on the stony floor.

Groaning he pressed a hand to the back of his head. Both Winchesters grimaced at the watery blood on his fingertips. He frowned at the shackle on his wrist, tracking the chain to its attachment on the wall. Sam's chest heaved and Dean didn't have to see his face to know that Sam was edging towards panic.

"I don't know if I should be insulted or flattered that I didn't get a manacle."

The taut muscles in Sam's flannel-covered back loosened and he sighed at his brother's voice, tossing back his soggy mane. "Insult," he chattered out. He hacked more water out of his lungs and pressed a hand to his ribs. "Whaddo they want?"

Dean sank down to his knees so he could see more of Sam. He winced at Sam's slurred speech. "You to have a shower, apparently. Other than that, I'm not sure."

Sam slumped a bit, rubbing his eyes. "Same shit, differen' day, then."

"Pretty much. You seein' double? They clobbered you pretty good."

Sam turned his head without lifting it, finally looked at Dean. "Try triple. Head's killin' me."

"Lay down for a sec," Dean said quickly. Sam ignored him, fixated on the door his cell. "They soldered mine."

"But not mine." The seasoned hunter rose slowly, which was the smallest of blessings. By the time he rose to his full height, he had to tuck his chin to his chest. It was slightly funny to see his giant brother try to move about in a cage built for midgets.

Sam was so fixated on the door to the bars, he forgot about his shackled wrist. He ran out of slack after two Sammy-sized paces, chain bounced tight, refusing to give. Sam grumbled with irritation, but stretched his body out and kicked the bars with those lethally long legs.

The door barely moved.

Stubborn, Sam kept at it until he was lightheaded from the effort, dropping to the stone floor with a grunt, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead.

"You gonna listen to me now?"

Sam flicked him off. It was a regrettable thought, but Dean was glad Sam was with him.

 **-SPN-**

He didn't remember dozing off . The tense boredom coupled with the adrenaline drop and whatever the demon had done to him was enough for Dean to slip off into sleep. He almost missed the good ole days when getting ambushed and abducted with a rare, albeit terrifying occurrence or at least one he didn't sleep through. Bruises dappled his skin from his abduction and his stomach growled with hunger, which told him he'd been out for hours. He rolled his neck and sighed with pleasure when it cracked.

"Sammy, you all right?" He called.

Silence.

Dean forced himself to stand with a grown and peered through the bars. Terror rippled down his spine when he saw his brother curled in on himself, shivering violently. When Dean had last seen him, he'd been faintly green in the firelight, squeezing the water from his clothes. Now, he was as pale as chalk, puffy bags under his eyes, his lips so dusky, they edged on blue. Horrified, Dean threaded his arms through the bars, turning towards the wall to ease it in up the shoulder and blindly groped for his brother. He immediately noticed the change in temperature. While the air in his cell held a slight briskness, the nearby fire kept it from being outright cold. Sam's cell was the furthest from the fire, and it held a definite chill, and the stone floor had to be freezing. Factor in that Sam was soaking wet. While Dean had been comfortable enough to sleep, Sam had gone _hypothermic_.

Dean cursed every time he gripped air. Sam was too far away. He pushed further until the tips of his fingers brushed over chilled flesh and flannel thinly crusted with ice and slapped it, hard. Sam jerked beneath him, teeth clicking loudly. He managed a pathetic groan before falling silent. "Sam!" Dean barked.

He grabbed for fabric and tried to towing him out of the center of the cell and towards the bars. Between Sam's bulk, the lack of leverage and the leash he was attached to, he only managed to move him a foot.

His hand was warm, or at least warmer than Sam's freezing, damp skin, so he stuck in down Sam's shirt, giving whatever warmth he could.

"You with me, Sammy? You gotta complain that I'm feelin' you up right now."

"…rr-rather be tortured…" Sam's voice was blunted murmur.

"Pretty sure you're already there," Dean replied. "Gimme your hand."

It took a minute, Sam's brow creasing, before he painfully lifted them, the fingers curled and stiff. Dean grabbed them awkwardly, pressing his face against the bars to blow on them. "Talk to me, dude. My cell doesn't have a flat-screen."

It was a long moment before Sam responded. "I'm gonna get us out, o-kay? W-whatever happens, we're g-gettin' out."

"What am I, chopped liver?"

"Gonna save you no m-matter what."

And suddenly, Sam wasn't about their latest fiasco. It was about The Mark, and Sam's unspoken crusade to save Dean as if he had something to prove. After ten years with Sam at this back or riding shotgun, they knew each other on a cellular level. They could have entire conversations with just the flicker of an expression. It was a connection Dean cherished and doggedly clung to in the wake of The Mark. The damned thing was changing him, sulfuric hatred leeching into his soul bit by bit. Dean's dogged and obstinate resistance was instinctual, but this was a battle he knew he'd eventually lose.

A day was coming, very soon, when Dean would drive off into the sunset with his baby, find a nice idyllic spot, light a purified fire and eat his gun at its edge, ridding himself, Sam and the world of his curse before he ever had the chance to go darkside again. There are some things even the evilest of evils couldn't strip from him—and his heroic death was one of them.

But Sam was resolute in his need to save him, and like with Dean's crossroads deal three lifetimes ago, he let him lie and slink off on secret missions if only so Sam would know that he'd tried. The only thing that kept him up at night was the knowledge that his brother would be the last surviving Winchester again, a curse onto itself.

Dean patted Sam's chest. "I know you are, kid," he said heavily. "For now, let's defrost you. Get this shirt off."

He nudged and prodded Sam to action, encouraging him when his frozen fingers fumbled with the buttons. It was a bit like undressing a drunk octopus with one arm. Sam fluctuated between being limp and boneless and coiled with intense tremors as his body tried to generate heat. He forgot what was doing and why twice during the process. For once, Dean was grateful that they only had about 10 flannels between them. He easily ripped off left sleeve, pulling the soggy shirt completely off, despite the cumbersome chain.

Dean took his off his own flannel and stuffed it through the bars. "Pretend it's an electric blanket or somethin'."

Dean poked him with the damp shirt. "Towel your hair off, and remember this the next time that weird lady at the bar offers to buy it."

Sam snorted, shivering with less violence now. He pushed himself upright to oblige. On the other side of the wall, Dean was overheated, sweating from the effort and felt guilty for doing so.

The echoing of keys had Dean turning towards the door. A beat later, Gemma entered. She had changed of her blue Gas 'N Go polo and wearing tight black leather pants and a silver biker's jacket with studs on the shoulders. She winked at Dean as she paused to stoke the fire and added a few logs. "Hope you had a pleasant night."

"It's not the Four Seasons, but it'll do," Dean shrugged.

Gemma ventured around the bars, lettering her hand bounced over them. "And Sam? How are you? Cold, are we?"

Sam cut his eyes at her and clenched his jaw so his teeth wouldn't chatter.

"Oh, the strong silent type, I see. I wonder what I can do about that."

Dean shot to his feet when Gemma unlocked Sam's cell. Dean knew that he was concussed from the gas station attack and aching and weak from spending a freezing night in wet clothes. Sam's expression darkened into a menacing scowl, but Dean could easily pick out the fear in the way he tracked her every move and the tightness of his eyes. He was utterly vulnerable and they both knew it.

Gemma was more powerful than most demons they'd encountered. She attacked in a flurry of movement Dean could barely track. She booted Sam in his exposed back and leaned down to punch him in the face. Dean hollered, stretching an arm through to try to pull her back. His fingertips brushed against the collar of her leather jacket.

Sam's head whipped to the side from another vicious blow, and Dean could see blood dribbling from his nose. He used his leg to sweep Gemma's feet out from under her and scooted away from Dean until he hit the far wall, buttressed by stone. By the time Gemma had gotten to her feet, Sam was standing too, head tucked awkwardly against his chest in deference of the low ceiling.

Now, Dean couldn't see anything just the rippled glide of shadows over stone. There were the telltale slapping thumps of violence, but with Sam's stoicism and ridiculous tolerance for pain, Dean couldn't tell who was winning, though he had a grim guess. Still, he opened and closed his hands, trying to grab that evil bitch and haul her away from his brother every chance he got.

It was Dean's turn to chant in Latin, a stronger exorcism that could neutralize a variety of binding links that Sam had forced him to memorize years ago. Saving Sammy's life was the best motivator for Dean, and his usually clunky tongue glided over the Latin smoothly. Gemma twitched, panting like a woman in labor, before her face appeared between the bars mere inches away. The air twisted and attacked, and Dean was blown back, slamming into the opposite wall of his cell. He cried out as the air was grinded out of his lungs before he hit into the floor. Dean's vision grayed at the edges, eyes fluttering. Blood rushed through his ears as loud as a cresting waves.

While The Mark loved discovering weaknesses in others, it preyed on it in Dean. It was bolstered by his vulnerability, finding the cracks in the armor and burrowing in like a virus, replicating its poison whenever Dean was exhausted or horny or craving a drink. It was happening now, another lever pulled, another bit of soul scorched, as he slid closer to unconsciousness. Sam groaned, being beaten feet away, instantly lowering Dean's wilting resolve, and he forfeited a bigger piece if that meant he could help his brother.

His vision cleared and he was abruptly on his feet, hammering at those thick bars and massive stones with his fists, teeth bared. A rock cracked from a blow that reverberated up Dean's arm and split his knuckles. Dean kicked a bar, loosening it. With a growl, he tore it out of the wall with his bare hands. He wedged himself into the now bigger space. Both shoulders wouldn't fit but it was enough to get his head and his right arm though. He struck out as hard as he could, nailing Gemma in the center of her upper back with the bar hard enough that there was a crack splintering bone and a misting of blood.

When she faced him, Dean didn't see an incensed or fearful supernatural being. Gemma seemed pleased. "Now that's the Dean I want."

Gemma left without a word. Dean snarled as she went, body hot. He was awash with something far more intoxicating than just whiskey and more empowering than adrenaline, and it was so potent, he was fairly certain he could spit fire or melt metal.

Through the aggressive miasma of power, Dean heard Sam's moan of distress, his brother trying to call his name, to make sure Dean was okay. The slip had been like the flip of a switch, illuminating an extension of himself that was untamed and absolute. Reigning it in, however, was akin to taming a hurricane or leashing a hellhound. And yet for Sam, Dean would do anything or die trying. The anguish in Sam's brittle tone wasn't for himself, it resonating with concern for Dean. There was a lancing pain in his head and a vile sickness roiling in his stomach. He deflated—an impotent husk without the energy born from rage.

Now everything was overwhelmingly clear. Dean staggered back out of the hole in the wall he'd torn down with his bare hands. The bar clattered to the floor. His hands were ripped and torn, slick with blood, and stinging terribly. But that didn't matter now, Sam did.

On the other side of the wall, Say lay in a heap on his side, all sweaty hair and now ominously silent. Dean couldn't see his face, but the fingers of his unshackled hand twitched spasmodically, trying to fight the pain. The cuffed arm bled too.

He used the bar has a manual jackhammer, stamping the jagged edge down again and again to cleave off chunks of rock and widen the space. The cuts on his hands ripped even more, making the bar slippery in his hands, but Dean didn't stop. He bared it and moved on. When impatience got the better of him, he lunged at the hole, stuffing himself through. The rocks grated a few layers of skin off his shoulders as Dean crawled over to his downed little brother, hands hovering.

"Jesus, Sam."

His eyebrow was split and oozing blood, but the eye beneath it was already swollen completely shut, the cheek visibly rising to match. Sam's arm was tucked tight against his ribs and he hacked, then, loud and wet. Dean snagged his discarded flannel and passing it over his busted lips, hissing when Sam whimpered. He writhed a bit, head lolling on the pavement as he gathered breath to speak. "…eyes were black…"

Dean felt sick. He had suspected they were. "Shut up, Sammy."

Sam made a guttural noise that Dean recognized not as pain but as fraternal irritation. He slid away from his brother's triaging touch and rocked forward a few times, chest rising unevenly. He attempted to push himself up on rubbery arms. Dean instantly helped, leaning him against the wall. Sam looked at him with his misshapen, bloody face. "…tryin' to turn you. Usin' me to do it."

The realization wasn't surprising but it was still a devastating fact. His head spun and whirled before ironclad resolve set in. "I won't let them."

"…no matter what, Dean…I don't care what they do to me. You _can't_."

"I got it." The prospect of Dean's neat, frills-free death flitted away, but he shushed his shuddering brother. Taking the placing beside him instead. Sam's head dropped to his shoulder.

"…what's the plan?" Sam slurred.

"Kick it in the ass," Dean said casually as if their deaths were looming behind a shadowed door. "Like always."

He scooted closer to Sam to lend some of his warmth. It was a balm on for Dean's shame and the mounting feeling that this might be it for them. He felt like he should have talked, like he should have apologized for everything that had happened with Gadreel and Kevin and talking Sam out of the trials. He should have told Sam that he was the best man he knew and that he loved him. But he knew that Sam brush him off, and he didn't want to spend whatever time they had left reliving past pain. This was as good as it would ever get, a fitting Winchester end: two brothers, beaten, but united.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

When Gemma materialized outside of the cell, she didn't seem to care that Dean had slipped inside with Sam. She made an exaggerated pouting face at the sight of the two brothers huddled together before moving to stoke the fire and tinker at the old table in front of it. Dean knew the makings of black magic spellwork when he saw it.

Sam was passed out on his shoulder, executing wheezing little breaths that made Dean's stomach clench in sympathy. He needed a plan that didn't involve going all Darth Dean. The only weapon he had was the stupid bar he'd torn out of solid stone.

It wasn't quite falling on his sword, but it would take him out of the equation. He dismissed it without a few moment's hesitation, because Sam would be left a defenseless stressball to for Gemma and Co. to take their frustrations out on.

And then it dawned on him.

A flicker to a humming Gemma saw that she was entranced in grinding down herbs in her mortar and pestle, eyes black from lash lid to lid. While she was at one with her demonness, Dean lifted Sam's shirt gingerly and examined his ribs. The kid had managed to do a decent job of protecting himself during his beating. His arms were dappled with defense wounds but his ribs and chest were bruised but whole.

As far as he knew, they were both still warded against angelic location. If Dean broke that warding and prayed to Castiel, they both just had to hold on long enough for the trench-coated cavalry.

Dean regarded the bar with purpose. There was no easy or pleasant way to break your own ribs. The body was ingrained to prevent injury, especially when it was self-inflicted. Dean closed his eyes, puffed out a few anxious breaths and rammed the end of the bar into his ribcage as hard as he could. There was a sharp, tear-inducing ache followed an internal pop. It was an agony Dean had experienced enough times to know he'd succeeded on the first try. As he rode out the cresting agony in silence, he sent out the supernatural SOS to Castiel.

Gemma taped lightly on door with the keys. "Hate to break up this brotherly moment," her mouth curled into a treacherous smile, "but I'm gonna need Sam."

Dean launched himself to his feet, broken rib protesting mightily. "Pretty sure you know how that's gonna play out."

Gemma unlocked the door. "Let me guess something like: 'I'm a big bad male hunter and I won't be defeated by you demon scum.' Or how about 'If you want my brother, you'll have to go through me.'" She said in an exaggerated baritone. "Well color me surprised, Dean, I thought you'd never ask."

The bar was apparently an all-purpose weapon. He snagged it with the toe of his boot, swung his foot up and caught it in mid-air. Gemma crossed her arms over her silver leather jacket. The door open with so much force, it swung backward, hitting the bars with such calamity, sparks fizzled into the air. She advanced. Dean took a step forward in front of his brother, wishing his weapon was iron so he'd have a chance of hurting the bitch. Dean swung at her, hoping to clobber the smirk off her smug demonic face. Gemma ducked it with little effort, and then extended her hand to blow something gritty, like coarse powder, into his face. Stunned, Dean choked and sneezed, shaking his head to get the irritant out of his eyes.

The bar slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. The very foundation of physics reversed as floor became ceiling and up became sideways. The powder was in his lungs, expanding and choking. Dean's knees cracked against the stone as he fell on all fours, hacking up with felt like most of his lungs and part of his spleen in mouthfuls of tarry, stringy black.

Dean was keenly aware Gemma twisting his arm to expose the tender flesh and slicing it deeply, and was powerless to stop her. She yanked out of a clump of his hair and strutted back to her table. Dean continued to cough and wheeze, his skin tingling with a slithering itch.

By the time the powder wore off, Dean's head spun and his heart stuttered disjointedly within him, Gemma had completed her spell with a puff of green flames and a cackle of demonic glee.

"Second Rule, Dean: Don't fight hard, fight smart." She looked triumphant as she strutted into the cage. "I've dotted my tees Is. Now it's time to cross my Ts." She kneed Dean in the face, dumping him on the floor as she passed. Dean's eyes streamed and he gurgled on a bit of blood oozing down the back of his throat. He could only writhe and tremble as Gemma stepped over him to get to Sam. He must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew, the heels of Sam's boots crossed the threshold of the cell and the door shut and locked itself.

A grim-faced Sam was unceremoniously dropped in a chair, wrists shackled.

Gemma flipped her fuzzed curls out of her face and whooped into the lowlight. Sam was loose-limbed and weak. Holding up his battered head looked like a Herculean effort.

Gemma braced herself on the arms of the chair. "I've dreamed of this, Sam, on the racks in the filthiest bowels of hell, I dreamt of this moment right here, and now that it's here, it is more glorious than I ever could have hoped."

Dean squinted, trying to lift his head, there was something in her hand. It was oddly shaped and black.

She palmed his swollen cheek and clucked with faux concern. "You're so cold, Sam. I bet this will warm you up in an instant."

A frigid sweat blossomed over Dean's skin when he realized what it was. When she thrust it into his ribs and Sam's body was bent backward like a bow, throat corded, face reddening, as the taser's current ripped through him, sizzling over his wet skin. She withdrew it, and Sam went lax, muscles still spasming. Streaming blue eyes met Dean's filled with anguish and suffering and well-honed resolve. They rolled to bloodshot white when he was zapped again.

Time passed in frames of nightmarish torture: Gemma breaking Sam's fingers; Gemma whipping Sam with Dean's confiscated pistol; Sam trying to convey his otherworldly resolve even when he was voiceless from screaming.

Gemma gazed at Dean as she clicked the taser, a small thread of harnessed lightning striking between the prongs. "Where should I go next, Dean? Here? Or…" she circled around Sam, fingers twisted in his blood-crusted hair, yanking it back to expose his neck. "Here?"

Dean railed against the bars, screaming formless words that saturated in hatred and anger.

Sam's Adam's apple bobbed anxiously in his throat. "…d-don't…D-Dean…no m-matter wha—"

Gemma pressed the taser to his neck. Sam's body shot up and out, like a pull-out sofa. Foam bubbled from Sam's lips as Gemma laughed. The current was probably frying his brain, cooking away all that intelligence and soft-heartedness _and Sammy._ And what was the point of any of this if Sam was dead? If the demons won?

The Mark glowed, a nefarious light that now glimmered like salvation. It had been the answer all along, and Dean had hated himself for letting it go this far. He peeled back the barrier he'd built around his soul. Evil flooded in, a sweet elixir coupled with righteous anger. What was wrong with a little evil if it saved his brother?

-SPN-

Foamy gunk filled his mouth.

Boiling blood siphoned pain through every nerve.

The chair rocked in loose, rickety joints, creaking under Sam's massive, tremoring weight.

Gemma was relentless, shocking him again and again, never giving him a chance to breathe. His lungs were stalled by raw, hot torment.

The taser clunked against the nearby table. Sam's shuddering body flopped still and he slid bonelessly down in the chair, agony strumming through him like ripples in a pond. He couldn't take much more. His head fell back but he was able to get a glimpse of Dean.

And somehow that was more stunning than electrocution. Dean's eyes were completely black, and gone was the composed, experience hunter. He'd been replaced with an unhinged instrument of brutality, ramming the soldered bars like a charging bull, expressing his hatred in feral snorts and growls. And The Mark was a muted glow beneath the sleeve of his soiled flannel.

Dean was _turning._

Horrified, Sam tried to speak through swollen lips and a sludge-filled mouth. He hacked and spit, gulping air into his empty lungs. "Deeeeean," he rasped. "I'm okay. I'm…"

There was a sickening pop as Gemma broke his index finger. The grating scream was reflexive, breaking near the end.

Dean launched himself at the bars, metal vibrating, blood dripped from his knuckles.

"What kind of celebration do you think they'll have topside for the demon who turned a freakin' Winchester into a killing machine?" Gemma asked in a rich murmur. Gemma had nails that were filed like talons. It was a trendy thing now, and they were painting black with little rhinestones on tips. She raked the nails over Sam's sweaty skin, and part of him relished in the touch, in any sensation that didn't hurt. "School shootings? Measles outbreak in a daycare? More people voting republican?"

"He'll go after demons, s-slaughter them all," Sam struggled out. "And bitch, you'll be first." He let his hand fall over the chair, and signaled with the two fingers that she hadn't broken. _I'm okay._

Gemma purposefully blinked, eyes flashed demonic white. Sam had suspected it that she had been more powerful than she let on. He wished he had the luxury of being even more terrified than he was now that she finally revealed her true colors. She turned to the fire and plucked a few embers out that hummed a fiery white. They cooking Gemma's fingers like a flank steak, but the demon inside of the vessel tittering with glee.

Despite the choking dread of what was coming next, Sam kept signing, hoping Dean was still whole enough to understand. _I'm okay. I'm okay._

She casually sprinkled the smoldering chunks over Sam's arms and legs. His body had been so overloaded with pain that it took a second for his ragged nerves to process it. When they finally registered the searing burn, it was like acid at been dumped on him. He huffed out an ugly sound, akin to a strangled oink, and then the pain crested so far beyond his tolerances, he couldn't scream, think or breathe. Sam's shackled limbs shook, nudging the embers off his forearms. One plinked down onto his pants, melting through the denim. Tears streamed down his face. Tendrils of smoke filled his nostrils with the stench of his own burning skin—a tactile scent that carried blistering emotional pain as well as torturous physical. And for a long agonizing moment, Sam didn't care how it happened, he just wanted the pain stop.

"Oh Sammy, you don't get it do you? When Dean turns, I _control him_. Thanks to my spell, he'll be my killer puppet, and it will be magnificent. Crowley has a hellhound, but I have a Knight of Hell on a leash. Who's King now?"

Even though the embers had mostly burned out, Sam's mind was muddied by pain and he had no energy left to fight.

Gemma cinched her hands around Sam's throat, instantly cutting off his air. Sam didn't fight it. HIs eyes bulged as his body went limp in the chair. Disjointed thoughts skittered to and fro without ever being fully formed, and yet one managed to bloom even as unconsciousness loomed. There was one only obvious choice: using an old affliction to prevent a new, unpredictable one.

If Sam didn't act now, he'd break or die and fail them all. _Again_. Dean always teased Sam about his gigantic noggin so he put it to good use by head-butting Gemma square in the chin. The blow caught her off-guard. Her vessel was still alive, he caught a glimpse of the shell-shocked teenager within. He snatched her curled hair, whipping her head back to expose the graceful slope of her neck. A mirror of what she had done to him before electrocuted him so vigorously he'd passed out. "You forgot two things: I killed Crowley's hellhound and _Dean's not the only Winchester who's cursed_."

There was no time for guilt or hesitation or shame, only coldhearted, definitive action. Sam sank his teeth into Gemma's neck, piercing the jugular. The blood dripped into his mouth with a revolting, warm slickness that tasted of copper with an afterburn of sulfur. He swallowed it down as fast as he could. Gemma's guttural holler rippled through her blood as it flowed into Sam's mouth and down his chin, and with it her awesome, demonic power.


	4. Chapter 4

Confession: I lovelovelove this story and I'm really proud of it. I sincerely hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Final chapter! Let me know what you think!

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

Gemma's blood flowed into his system, like giving life to the volatile, invigorating power Sam had long-forgotten. It was intoxicating fuel that masked the burning ache of his burned-out muscles, that deadened the queasiness and the throbbing pounding in his battered body. His senses were sharpened, his strength magnified, his bloodthirst reborn. Sam burrowed deeper, now relishing in the velvety richness of the blood and its resulting, unbridled power. Sam was freed from his pathetic, masochistic morality and the shackles of feeble humanity.

He drained her like a juicebox as he watched the white fade from her eyes. When he was finished he snapped her neck with his efficient twist of his bare hands.

Gemma, the demon and the teenager, dropped to the floor unheeded.

Dean was clear-eyed and slack-mouthed, gaping at him in outright horror.

Sam stalked towards the cage like a titan in the clouds. Dean flinched away from the bars.

"Ouch, big brother. I can leave your ass here if you want."

Dean took a small step forward, still visibly appalled. "No...get me out."

Sam lifted his hand, crooked swollen fingers and all, and closed his eyes. He unspoiled the energy with him and channeled it through them. The bars shook and rumbled, dust clouding the air. With a metallic groan, the lock splintered, falling in pieces and the door fell open with a squeak.

Dean ducked his head and hurried out. He whisked past Sam to hover over Gemma's body. "She's dead, Sam."

Sam regarded Dean. He knew there were emotions that should accompany this moment, but they were disturbingly absent, leaving nothing but pragmatism. "Drink enough, the demon dies too." Sam said, lapping at the blood on his lips.

"That's not what I meant."

Her sentry demon, abruptly emerged from the shadows, knife arcing down towards his brother. Sam shoved Dean aside, and thrust out his arm, blade glancing the elbow and cutting deep. It should have been agonizing to be knifed in a place that was just thin muscles stretched over bone, but there was nothing but the hot welling of blood.

Sam curled his hand into a fist, manipulating his power to a visceral pull instead of an outward blast. The work was draining and a wisp of pain slipped through the cracks with the piercing efficiency of a surgeon's scalpel. The pressure threatened to cleave his crush his skull but Sam didn't relent, not even when his knees weakened and there was a distinct tearing just behind his eyes. The bricks and fire and prison cells fizzled into static.

And finally, the demon surrendered, spilling out of his host in a puff of oily, black smoke. Sam wasn't strong enough to kill it, so he stuffed it down to the furthest reaches of hell.

Dean's face was still twisted in a rictus of terror. As soon as the demon's meatsuit dropped, he launched himself at Sam, fisting the collar of his soiled flannel and shoving him back a few feet. His eyes were wild and bruised, but a pristine, humane green. "You stupid son of a bitch! What did you do?"

Sam shrugged off Dean's grip with a harsh shove of warning that forced Dean to hop sideways, dangerously close to the fire. "She was going to weaponize you. I had no choice."

Dean's eyebrows climbed. "So you armed yourself?!"

"We're free, aren't we?" His power was already waning, his severely weakened body burning through the energy faster than it ever had, and it was exacerbated by the fact that he was bleeding from the gash in his arm and from other injuries. He stared not at the broken angles of Gemma's neck but the blood pooled beneath it, already yearned for more.

"Don't even think about it," Dean growled. Strong arms powered him through the doorway, up narrow, uneven stairs and into the rainy night.

Where Castiel was running towards them, keys in one hand, angel blade in another. He skidded to a halt in the mud. "Rescuing you two was so much easier before I had to contend with traffic."

Sam and Dean and exchanged loaded, regrettable look before their shoulders shook with humorless, tragic laughter.

-SPN-

Sam's blazing metabolism burned through the last of the blood an hour away from the bunker.

Dean wedged himself between the passenger and driver's seats to get into the backseat next to him. Sam slithered away from his touch. On top of all of the injuries, Sam's entire body cramped with the need for blood and he was again overloaded from the agony of his injuries. He pressed his face into the musty leather and sobbed. "I c-can't do this again."

Dean shushed him calmly, risking a feather-light touch to his shoulder. "You can, Sammy. And it'll be better this time. I'm not leaving, dude. I will be with you the entire time. You hear me?"

Sam did. He turned towards his brother, and found Lucifer perched in his place, beaming at Sam's ghastly, vulnerable state.

With a jolting scream of terror, the mighty Sam Winchester didn't just break, he shattered.

-SPN-

Dean didn't remember how many tragedies they survived until a hallucinating Sam began reliving them all. He rambled about soullessness, cried about Kevin and Bobby's deaths; argued with an invisible Amelia about demons and faith and heartbreak; and now, he was convinced Dean was a demon, swayingly side-stepping Dean when he tried to help him lay down in the bed Castiel had dragged into the bunker's dungeon.

Sam's eyes were mostly swollen shut, the right one blinking and streaming, tears leaking into the crescent shaped gash below. Blood was congealed beneath this nose and dripping in sickening plinks down the gash in his arm. His undershirt was artfully mottled with grime and vomit and blood, and Dean could see the burns lividly beneath the skin. Infection was an inevitability at this point, but Dean was more concerned with the blood loss, the severity of the facial injuries and the severity of Sam's withdrawal.

He inched closer to Sam, hands spread wide in surrender. "Sammy, come on. I didn't turn, I'm okay. You made sure of that."

Sam scowled. "Wasn't born yesterday, you black-eyed bitch. You died and Crowley turned you. Where's your _hammer_ , you asshole?"

Dean's knees nearly buckled. He had a foggy memories of what he'd done as a demon, and he'd never been in a hurry to fill in the blanks. Sam had excused the attempted murder with a wave of the hand and his patented, "It wasn't you," but clearly Sam's subconscious hadn't recovered so easily. That was how Winchesters showed love-in festering, gnarled suffering for other. Dean felt awash of it now, knowing how traumatizing it had been for Sam to watch his death, cure his demonic big brother only to have that very nightmare linger over him like an inescapable fog.

"Sammy, you cured me. You just don't remember. Lay down for me, little brother, and I'll leave."

Sam didn't hear him, and Dean wondered not for the first time just how aware he was.

Sam's puffy-eyed gaze cut directly through him. "Dean?! Dean, where are you?"

Castiel entered the bunker, guided Dean into the shadows, and stepped forward to placate a distraught Sam. His brother clung to the angel like a lifeline. "Dean's dead, Cas. I tried to s-save him but I couldn't. I never can s-save him..."

Dean used Sam's distraction to his advantage. He hastily washed this mangled hands free of blood in the small sink, popping a finger back into the socket with a grunt and a grimace before he doused them in whiskey, indulging in a long pull. He stuffed them into a pair of tight latex gloves, and lingered in the darkness to wait until Sam's agitation subsided.

It was a grave relief when the weakness of Sam's ravaged body overwhelmed Sam's demonic delusions, and he collapsed in front of the cot. Castiel caught him easily, dropping with him when Sam curled forward, bowed from another bout of cramps. Dean inched into the light. Sam's bloated face canted towards him, and his chin trembled, one hand curled around his belly. "It hurts, Dean," he whispered tearfully. "Everything hurts."

He knelt down beside his brother who'd been purposely driven to hypothermia, beaten, tasered, burned, starved and in the throes of withdrawal from supernatural smack. "Understatement, man. We're going to get you better."

Dean sent Cas on an errand, so he could tend to his brother in privacy.

Dean was tight-lipped, fighting his own exhaustion and pain, as he cut off Sam's shirts, and washed the grime and sulfur from his chest and arms with saline-soaked gauze pads. He detached as much as he could, focusing on fixing the wounds in front of him. He could freak out later, when Sam was better.

He stitched the deep laceration just below his elbow, and cleaned and bandaged angry cuts on his swollen face.

Abruptly Sam began to convulse, head flung back, shoulders cresting off floor. Cursing, Dean turned him on his left side, cradling his cheek to prevent his battered face from cracking against the floor.

A guttural whine escaped Sam's bloated lips, and Dean couldn't take anymore either. He cried as his brother suffered through the worst pain of his life in order to save him. The bleakness in moments like this made him wonder why they fought so hard to do good when it all seemed earmarked for destruction anyway. Maybe he and Sam could take the drive to that idyllic spot together.

The seizure was endless, and a vicious thread of convulsions worked off one of Sam's shoes, toes splayed straight beneath threadbare socks. Sam was turning a livid shade of crimson.

He wasn't breathing.

Castiel ran into the dungeon with a clang. "I got it, Dean. I hope it is enough."

Dean tore his eyes away from Sam's purpling face. "It's fine. Get that syringe there. Fill it up. Jesus, hurry up, Cas!"

Castiel obliged, pulling the plunger back to suck deep red into the barrel. Dean snagged a pillow from the coat, and worked it under Sam's head. He straddled him pulling his bare, blistered arm as straight as he could. He swiped the syringe from Castiel without looking. It wasn't hard to find a vein with Sam's muscles spasming and joints locked tight. The needle slid in smoothly, and Dean not a twinge of guilt when he injected the demon blood directly into Sam's vein.

Sam's body jerked four more times, each one weaker than the next, and then he was still, face falling lax. Dusky blue fading from his lips as he gulped air.

"Dean, are you sure this is the right—"

Dean silenced him with a glare. "Sam took on his curse so I wouldn't have to face mine. He's been through enough. Making him do this cold turkey...was a mistake."

"I understand, Dean," Castiel said. "You are in need of care too."

Dean hunched over Sam again. "My only worry is getting Sam through this."

He inserted an IV, hydrating Sam who was feverish but no longer sweating.

Castiel took off his trenchcoat and draped it neatly over the foot of Sam's cot. He knelt on the floor, and grabbed a cloth, drenched it in peroxide to scrub at the cuts on the back of Dean's neck Dean hissed, lowering his head. "Cas…"

The angel's reply was a comforting rumble in Dean's ear. "You are my friends, Dean, my brethren. You worry about Sam. I will worry about you."

Dean splinted Sam's broken Sam's left arm that bore three broken fingers and darkened wrist while Castiel pressed an icepack to Dean's lower back, clucking about internal bleeding.

Together, they took care of each other in an awkward chain of triage. And they worked out a plan for Sam's withdrawal. Something about Gemma's blood was different—the effects were stronger but it had a shorter half-life. When Sam had no blood in his system, he launched into intense, violent seizures, so Dean mixed it into his IV, keeping Sam on a constant, yet decreasing, drip. When Sam was conscious, he was delirious, babbling or writhing in pain, so Castiel used his angelic powers to sedate him so he didn't have to be restrained. Two fingers on his forehead and Sam was knocked out, blissfully unaware of the havoc within.

The following hours consisted of nothing but kneeling over a cot in the dungeon, pink-tinged IV bags and keeping Sam alive.

Fifty-three hours later, Castiel folded a hand over Sam's forehead and gasped. As raggedly spent as he felt, Dean's heartrate still skyrocketed, leaving him a bit faint. He hadn't been able to eat, though his fever, concussed and wicked bruising had nothing to do with it.

"What, Cas? Is he…" Dean didn't dare finish. He had very valid fears about Sam's brain.

Sam's face was dark was bruises and a burgeoning beard, but the swelling and receded enough so that he was almost recognizable. The fever was high and holding, like Dean's, though he no longer drank the air in grating, too-shallow sips.

Castiel's shockingly blue eyes flickered to him, and he smiled. "He's dreaming," he announced, "about Helen Mirren."

If he had the strength, Dean would have whooped with joy. He managed to muster the energy to smile. "Mama issues," he mumbled. "Or grandma issues."

Castiel blinked pointedly.

"Fine, fine, she's hot," he relented. "Does that mean he's out of the woods?"

"Sam is not in a forest," Castiel said seriously. "His condition is improving. I think you should get some sleep now, Dean. I can watch over him."

"You were human for like, a month, and when did you have time to learn how to Mother Hen?"

Castiel's brow furrowed. "I am an angel; I can tell the condition of your body on the atomic level. There's a multiplying cluster of cells in your colon that will eventually become cancer." Castiel leaned forward. "Gemma had you both for nearly two days. At this moment, you need water, sustenance and sleep."

Dean grimaced flatly. "Sammy put himself through hell so I could have what, a few more weeks?"

"Sam's motivations are the same as your own. He loves you, Dean. You and I both know it can be easier to suffer than watch others do the same. If I could have smited Gemma and her followers, I would have done so without hesitation."

Dean recognized shame when he heard it; he had a lot of practice. "Don't go there, Castiel. It's not your fault."

"I lived millennia with my grace, Dean. Even when God and Heaven turned their backs on me, I had my grace. Now I am...less than I was...I feel like..."

"...like a part of you has been stolen," Dean finished. He wormed his arm through the blanket he shivered under to reveal The Mark. "I understand, Cas. I do. You are a angel and you're a pretty awesome man, too. Just don't forget it that. We don't care if you have grace or not. That ain't why we keep you around."

Cas had the audacity to blush. "I can say the same for you, Dean Winchester. You are a kick-ass man and a good brother. Even if you do not think so, Sam does and so do I." He stood and whisked on his trenchcoat. "I am going to make some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and you are going to eat one."

Dean sat back in the chair, knowing this was one he wouldn't win. "You got it."

There was a rustle of threadbare blankets and the crackling scrape of a dry, recently abused throat. He lifted his head and was rewarded to find Sam's mismatched muddy blue eyes trained on his. Before Dean could panic, Sam's dry lips flickered upwards and opened to form a single, staticky word: "...good?"

They were all a little broken, baring the unseemly weight of battle scars, loss and afflictions. Dean caught a glimpse of the The Mark in his peripheral vision. He tried to gauge if he felt different, if the evil that had seized him at remained. But now when he looked at it, all he could see what Sam's sacrifice, all he could feel was the love that inspired it. For the first time since he'd asked for this power, he regarded it as nothing more than a fugly blemish or maybe even a twisted beacon of hope. As long as Sam was okay and by his side, The Mark never stood a chance and neither did any evil that dared to challenge them.

Castiel was scuffing down the hall with one-eighth of his grace, Sam hadn't been conscious or unrestrained in nearly five days, and Dean was fighting a daily war against an ever-encroaching darkness, and yet he smiled and gently brushing the hair off his brother's sweaty forehead. "Yeah, Sammy, I'm good."

 _Fin_


End file.
